The Prompts Series
by MrsJoyceChilvers
Summary: A series of Violet/Kuragin ficlets based on the prompts: Wine red velvet, Grief, Remember, Kiss, Dancing, Jealousy, and Cat(s) - although this is not the running order. That remains rather subject to when ability strikes. The rating is subject to change.
1. Chapter 1

**Prompt: Cat(s)**

_**AU: The year is 1875 - the location Paris, and the home of Igor and Violet.**_

Standing in the doorway, he can't help but smile at the sight of her, asleep in her chair by the window. It's been nearly a year since they fled Russia - and even now he can't believe she's here with him. He'd wanted her from the first moment he saw her - never could he have believed he could fall in love so fast and so deeply with someone, but he had, with her. That she feels the same… well, he never ceases to feel overwhelmed by the notion - overwhelmed and privileged. Violet Craw.., no, he mentally corrects himself, Violet Grushetsky loves him. He desperately wants to call her Violet Kuragin, to make it official, but the manner in which they'd left Russia and Irina's near certain rage make it impossible for now, so he'd reinvented them — if they could not yet be married in the eyes of the law, then they would create their own little world and be married in that - Igor and Violet Grushetsky of Paris. He'd picked his great grandmother's maiden name for them - in a way it allows him to think that he's somehow made Violet more his family than if he had picked a name at random - he wants her to belong, to be his family in as much as he can. He'd planned their escape down to the finest detail; Violet had sacrificed everything for him, and he in turn would do everything to make sure she'd never regret her decision.

Quietly easing closer to her chair, he briefly glances down at the basket in his hand and smiles; he hopes she likes this gift. He normally has no problem picking gifts for her; unlike Irina, Violet's taste is subtle - nothing ostentatious - just simple and elegant. But this gift is not jewellery, and he quietly admits to himself there's a chance she might not warm to it.

The sunlight dancing on her halo of red hair catches his attention, and turning his gaze back to her, he lets his eyes take in the beauty of her face as she peacefully sleeps, before allowing his gaze to drift further down her form, and to rest on the slight swell of her belly - and again he feels overwhelmed with how much he loves this woman. She's carrying his child, their child - and although part of him hopes for a boy, as any man would, another part of him longs for a girl - with red hair and a personality as fiery as her mother's. He's always wanted a child, but Irina had made it clear she did not - and he'd never pressed the issue. Some men would have, but he saw no point in bringing a child into a world in which it was not wanted by both parents. He still remembers the moment Violet told him - her nervousness had pained him, but then Violet still had a very English way of thinking about some things, and although they'd created the image of husband and wife, he knew that she had moments when she feared discovery - when the truth about them would come out and they'd end up ruined. In many ways this is a life in, if not the shadows, then lingering close by them. They have a small, intimate circle of friends, and they occasionally go to parties, but they remain a reserved couple - the secret they carry makes it a necessity. They might live in Paris, but upper class gossip has a way of traveling far and wide, and very quickly. It had been clear she was fearful about his reaction to the new complication in their lives - pregnancy brought with it unexpected and unpredictable factors - dangerous in a life together that needed to be discreet, but he'd ceased to care from the moment she'd shyly murmured the word "baby". If it was possible to explode with joy, he'd felt sure he came as close as any human had in that moment, but he'd restrained himself - he had needed to know how she felt - and when she'd timidly confessed that she was happy, if somewhat fearful, he'd gathered her up into his arms and kissed her with as much passion and tenderness as he could.

He peers down at the basket again and quietly chuckles as the contents make their presence known - one grey paw peeking out from under the cover flap. It might well be a mad idea, but he wants to build a home for Violet, to create a proper home for his family - his growing family. His own childhood hadn't been an overly happy one, but as a boy he'd recalled two things - the hour each day when his mother would play with him, and her grey-blue cat who usually came along. Those had been moments of true happiness - and he wants so much for Violet and their child to have happiness, always.

It pains him to wake her, but he knows the cook will have their evening meal ready soon, not to mention the little grey ball of fur in the basket seems increasingly anxious to get out, so leaning forward, he gently presses a kiss to her forehead - whispering "Good evening, Mrs Grushetsky" as he does. One day he will be able to say "Mrs Kuragin" - indeed he longs to call her "Princess Kuragin", her true title - he's determined to make it so, but for now he can live with this life they've created. He thinks of her as his wife - his wife, lover, friend, and the mother of his child, and, as she sleepily opens her eyes and smiles up at him, he hopes, the happy owner of a cat.


	2. Chapter 2

**Prompt: Kiss**

Her breath catches, not from the cold air, but from the feel of his thumb as he caresses over her lips. His fingers, his hands - she's never felt more safe and secure than as he gently cups her cheek and traces the contours of her face. She feels beautiful with him, but more than that, she feels alive - like someone had suddenly lit a raging fire within her. Some talk of the power of love in terms of feeling heady and lightheaded - with her it's as if suddenly everything feels more clear and lucid. Like she'd been living in a fog for the past fourteen years, and someone had now suddenly blown it away with the force of a hurricane. She feels everything with such acuteness now, with the same sharpness of sensation as a knife slicing across skin. It feels powerful and overwhelming, and although it frightens her, she finds she wants to feel this kind of fear - the fear of possibility, the fear of being more than she thought she could ever be, of feeling more, and wanting more. And my god, does she want. Until Igor Kuragin, she'd never known she could want in such a carnal way - now she finds her thoughts consumed by the idea - of being with him, of being his lover.

"My Violet."

Even now, this far into their affair, the sound of her name on his lips sends warmth all over her body. It's freezing outside the carriage - snow falling heavily - but she doesn't feel cold. He'd wrapped her in fur blankets the moment she'd stepped into the carriage, but it's the sound of her name that truly makes her feel warm. She's abandoning everything for him; her husband, her children, her life, such as it was, at Downton. She knows she should feel trepidation and guilt at what she's doing, but she doesn't - instead all she can feel is a yearning, and a desperate need to be with him - for somehow, she feels more herself in his company than she ever has in the 34 years of her life before now.

His breath caresses against her skin as he gently brings her closer to him - and as warmth envelops her anew, she lets her eyes drift closed. And then his lips are on hers; tender at first - as if gently seeking her permission. His lips are soft and seeking as he caresses them over her own - exploring her and memorising her - and then she hears him murmur, his voice deep and velvety:

"If you want to turn back, tell me now."

His words only make her more certain she's doing the right thing. Of course he'd give her a way out - and the gesture only makes her love him more.

"No."

Her single utterance is like a taper to a lamp, as the tender caresses of gently exploring lips give way to burning need and desire. And as she slips her arms around him, willingly tethering herself to him, tethering her life to him, she feels nothing but an overpowering sense of right. The world will judge and condemn them as being in the wrong, but she no longer cares. She's in love and in lust, not just with him, but with how he makes her feel - and as she parts her lips, freely giving herself over to him, letting him possess her, she feels freer than she's ever felt in her life.

This is the first kiss of her new life, she thinks. The first kiss of their new life together.

...

...

She had buried their affair; for five decades she had locked it away - both physically, within the storage boxes, and mentally, but seeing him at Downton had ripped everything open, and memories and feelings had come rushing back like a tsunami. She hadn't thought of that night in so long, of that kiss, and as she lifts her fingertips to her lips, she can still remember how it felt, how he felt against her. In the moment she had thought it the first kiss of her new life, their life - a passionate beginning to a future she couldn't wait to live. Of course it hadn't been. Fate was a cruel bastard, and one with an ironic way of twisting things. What had meant to be a first kiss, had in fact been their last - not the kiss to mark the start of a bright and passionate future, but instead a kiss to mark the end of what, in the harsh light of reality, now just seemed like a beautiful dream.


	3. Chapter 3

**Prompt: Jealousy**

Neither seemed capable of moving for a moment; the sound of porcelain smashing against the wood panel wall was still ringing in her ears, and try as she might, she couldn't tear her eyes away from the shards now scattered over the carpet. She'd always suspected that he had a dark side - there was something about his intensity, how passionate he was in love, that suggested that that fire manifested itself in other ways too, and now she had physical proof of that - a no doubt priceless vase lay in ruins on the floor. All in the heat of the moment of course, and in truth she could understand his anger, she'd been damn close to flinging something herself earlier, but it was still a shock that he'd actually done it - that he'd thrown something. Not at her though, he'd never touch her - if there's one thing she knows about Igor, it's that she feels completely safe with him, but the vase and the wall had borne the brunt of something that had been building up for a few days now - ever since her husband had returned to St. Petersburg. She suspected the vase represented her husband in this instance, or what Igor would like to do to him at any rate.

In a way it was bound to happen - their time together had become increasingly limited, now that the Royal Party had returned from their sojourn in Moscow. What had once been long afternoons together each day, had suddenly become brief stolen moments in darkened corridors during soirées. Today had been the first time they had been able to be together, to make love, in over a week. He'd been so ardent and passionate earlier - indeed had come damn near to ripping her dress off - a new development that, despite her initial shock, had in all honesty thrilled and excited her in such a way that went straight to her core, but as they lay together after, she sensed the tension in him. There was a shadow there, a darkness that she couldn't quite put her finger on. He was more quiet than usual too - like his mind was elsewhere, rather than in the room with her.

Reaching up, she caressed his cheek, and whispered his name. Whatever was bothering him, she wanted to help if she could. But instead of his usual warmth, and his now customary kiss to her hair, she'd been met with a coldness that had stung like a slap, and as he got out of bed, she suddenly felt more exposed and naked than she had in her life.

"Igor, tell me what's bothering you."

He had not replied, but instead busied himself with lighting a cigarette. Normally he'd have offered one to her - this time he did not.

"Igor?"

Her voice sounded needy, something she was loath to admit she could ever be capable of, but she needed him, and now needed to know what was wrong.

Still he did not reply.

The silence was becoming unbearable, and where once Violet could play the game as well, if not better than anyone, and for hours on end, this time she could and would not. Something was wrong, and his refusal to speak to her was quickly becoming infuriating, bordering on childish. She had two children at home, she didn't need another one as a lover.

"So be it", and with that she'd swung her legs out of bed and begun to find her clothes. Neither spoke for a few moments; he remained quiet, almost statue-like, but for the occasional lift of the cigarette to his mouth. She'd quickly slipped back on her undergarments and begun to fix her hair. It was almost ten minutes before she finally broke the silence again.

"I don't know what's wrong, what I've apparently done, but I trust you'll be able to find it within you to help me with this", she said, holding her corset in her hands. Her voice had become sharp, almost shrill, and for one brief second she could hear her mother-in-law in its timbre, but given Igor's attitude, it was perhaps no less than he deserved.

She hadn't bothered to look at him as she busied herself with the complications of dressing - doing up as much of her corset as she could on her own, but she'd now become stuck and at a point where she needed someone's help. Damn this blasted fashion, she thought. And so, she'd gestured for him to assist.

"There's only so much of this I can do up on my own. Whatever it is that I've done, would you at least help with this damn thing?"

This time he finally spoke - his voice shocking her with its coldness and barely disguised anger.

"Why? So you can go back to _him_?"

And suddenly there it was. She knew exactly who the "him" was - there was only one other with her in Russia, and it wasn't the Tsar. Surely they weren't going down this road, she thought - she was in love with him, deeply, but she was also practical enough to know that their affair would last the duration of her trip and no longer. She'd vowed not to spoil it with jealousy, even though she had every reason to feel it - like her, Igor was married. She wanted this affair to be the bright spot of her life, for her cherished memories of it to be the thing that made the dullness of England and life at Downton bearable - her secret, her private salvation. As understandable as what he seemed to be feeling was, she didn't want their love affair to become sullied with the nastiness of jealous lovers.

She turned to face him, her voice softer now, and she gently reached out to touch him, murmuring his name. She needed to make him see this from her point of view, but instead he seemed angrier, and pulled away from her with such speed, as if stabbed with a knife. His eyes, now dark, bore into her - his expression unreadable as he stared at her - blindly stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray on the table beside him.

"Igor" - she gently implored, hoping he would see that she understood, that she'd lowered her defenses again. He did not. And suddenly the words were pouring from his lips, cold and crude like a douse of ice water.

"How many times did he make love to you this week? Do you moan his name like you do mine? Do you let him caress and make love to you with his fingers, with his mouth? Do you?"

She knew he intended to appall, indeed maybe injure her with the crudeness of his words, but she held firm - she would not put her defenses back up.

"Igor, he's my husband - and I haven't asked you about what you do with Irina, your _wife_," was her quiet reply, but she was met with a dismissive shake of his head, as if her answer was insignificant, and so she continued.

"For what it's worth, he came to my bed once this week, just after he returned from Moscow. I've never said his name like I have yours though - I never will…"

Those last words had been difficult for her to say - she was not one to speak in blunt terms about sex, but she needed to make him see that although she was bound in marriage to another, she was bound to him in a much more intimate and meaningful way.

He turned away from her again, balling his fists, his shoulders hunching up as he seemed to coil inwards - his breathing now loud, almost grunt-like - and that was when it had happened; the vase had hit the far wall before she'd even been aware of him picking it up.

For a moment they both stood looking at the floor - stunned and suddenly breathless as they looked at the snow storm of porcelain pieces. And just as suddenly as he'd thrown the vase, he was on the floor - anger giving way to something Violet could only liken to devastation, as he sat heavily - almost in defeat, head in his hands.

"I'm sorry, I never meant… the vase. I can't do this", he mumbled - emotion clearly overcoming him.

She'd never expected to see him like this - in many ways the sight of him so broken seemed more shocking than the words he'd spat at her earlier. He was her Prince, her strong and safe refuge - it was overwhelming to see him look so lost. She eased on to the floor and approached him slowly, much as one would a wounded animal, until gently she touched his shoulder.

"Igor," she murmured, caressing her hand on his, coaxing him to look at her.

He was hurting, and for the first time since their affair began, she allowed herself to feel it too - tears welling in her eyes as she finally admitted to herself the injustice of it all. They were in love - madly, deeply in love. She hated his wife, just as surely as he hated her husband. She hated that she couldn't be the one to go to bed with him each night, to wake up in his arms each morning. She resented so much that she couldn't kiss him a welcome home each evening, or that she couldn't stand with him when in company. She held nothing back as she told him everything, caressing her hands through his hair as she did - tears slipping down her cheeks as she guided him into her embrace - her arms around him, cradling him against her.

She had no idea how long they remained like that - clinging to each other on the floor, until eventually he slowly looked up at her. He was unreadable again - and as he caressed his hands along her cheeks, wiping her tear stains, and through her hair, she feared the worst - that he was ending things. Instead he murmured in a low voice:

"Come away with me."

Just moments earlier she'd thought their affair would last no longer than her stay in Russia, how could it not? But here he was, proposing another path for them, and as he vowed to take care of her, to protect her and love her, she found herself quietly nodding in acceptance. It was madness, but somehow that didn't matter. She loved him and he loved her, and fate had brought them together in this moment for a reason. She'd been deluded to think that she could live on the memories of what they shared - _it wasn't enough, it would never be enough_ - and as he brought her lips to his, she closed her eyes and silently vowed she would not be parted from him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Prompt: Wine Red Velvet (This rated M, or a light M at any rate)  
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He'd slipped away for a few moments to arrange a meal for them for later, and so she stood, the satin sheet pulled around her naked body, taking in the sight of her clothes on the floor. She'd never seen them like this before - a discarded mess of velvet, cotton, and silk, strewn across the carpet, and breaking up its ornate pattern. Not even as a child would she have dared to leave her clothes like this - in such a careless heap. But then she hadn't actually been the one to leave them like this. Igor had. His own clothes lay beside hers, his shirt seemingly tangled with her chemise - a strangely perfect reflection of how their naked bodies had been earlier.

In their passion, neither had thought to neatly tidy things away - to fold and drape over. Instead they'd been consumed with a deep, burning yearning - nothing else had mattered in those moments as he'd kissed her by the foot of the bed - his arms around her, hers around him. The need to be with him had been astounding in its intensity; long before she'd come to his private apartment, she'd wanted him, and wanted to be with him, and in a way that no lady should be thinking of. Even now, as she stood next to the rumpled bed, the scent of arousal, of sex, permeating the air, and the moisture, his and her own, still between her legs, she felt shock at how wanton she'd been, at how wanton she'd become.

She'd known what would happen when he'd ask her to come to him, when he'd given her the address. The apartment had been his late brother's, but Igor had kept it - a mixture of sentimentality for a lost loved one, and as a private refuge of his own. Now it had become their refuge - the walls the keeper of their secret. They were lovers now - not just emotionally - they'd become that long ago, but physically now too. She'd been nervous - no amount of passion and need could mask that, or maybe it had been the passion and need that had made her so. She'd never felt like that before - the desire, the unbidden lust, and the strength of it had shaken her. In truth, she'd always thought of sex as a duty - she was a wife, it was something that was required of her, for the production of children, if nothing else. But with Igor Kuragin it had been something else entirely - it had been something to yearn for, to want, to experience with him. She'd often thought of lust as a dirty concept - selfish and sullied - the stuff of trite novels, none of which she'd time for. Now though - now she couldn't help but lust - lust for him, lust for time in his company, and the person she was when with him - and that realisation scared her. When had she become like this? Violet Crawley had always been a woman in control of her emotions, but somewhere in the last few weeks and days, that woman had vanished, and had been replaced by this... the word "hussy" and the voice of her mother hung in her head. Looking at the clothes again, she wryly noted the colour of her velvet dress - wine red. Oddly appropriate, she thought, for one who had just committed adultery with a married man. She tried to feel guilt, to feel some ounce of shame for what she'd done. She'd gone to bed with another man, let him make love to her, let him... she couldn't help but blush as images of their afternoon together flashed in her head. The way he'd kissed and caressed her breasts, the feel of his hands on her bare skin - touching her, openly marveling and admiring her, openly making love to her entire body - and like an instrument to his skilled player, she'd responded to each touch. Arousal had coursed through her - every caress or kiss eliciting from her a soft sigh or moan, until she wondered just how many different ways a person could sound, and then simply wondered nothing at all. _La petite mort_, the French called it. Was it a little death? For Violet it had felt more like the most intense burst of life - she could think of nothing in that moment, but my god, how she'd felt - every nerve, every inch of her skin had felt white hot.

Picking up her dress from the floor, she ran her hand over it; the velvet still felt lush and soft under her fingertips. In some twisted way she'd almost expected her actions to have hardened it, to have ruined its lustre, despite its now appropriate colour. Velvet was the material of a lady, and she was no longer that, was she? How could she be after she'd let Igor touch her in the ways he had, she thought. The image of him nestled between her legs suddenly sprang into her mind, forcing her to sit down on the edge of the bed. It was overwhelming, what he'd done to her - and as she thought of the feel of his lips against her sex, of the slow caress of his tongue along the most intimate folds of her body, she felt arousal and, yes, lust, rise within her anew. She buried her face into the soft wine red velvet - it, like every part of her now, seemed to smell of his scent - her own perfume but a distant memory, as seemingly everything about her became marked with him. She was light headed - her mind now swimming with images of them together. She tried to focus on the red of her dress - to remind herself of the wrongness in what they'd done, in what she'd done. "Red for a harlot" she mentally repeated - but it was no good - she couldn't feel ashamed or guilty - and instead she found herself thinking "red for passion, red for love". He'd first seen her in blue - fitting for the coldness that had been her life until that moment. She'd become his lover in wine red - not red for a harlot, for a fallen woman, but red for passion, for the fire she now felt inside. Moments later, she felt his strong arms around her and heard him murmur "my beautiful Violet" against her ear. And it was perfectly true - she was his, and with him she felt beautiful - she felt like a lady, like a woman. Others would no doubt condemn her if they knew what she'd done - and for one second she let herself wonder if her maid already suspected, if the red velvet dress she'd laid out had been a message, an indirect way to warn Violet that she knew and did not approve - but as she felt Igor place soft kisses along her neck and gently turn her body towards him again, she ceased to care. The red velvet dress suited her, suited how she felt now - she was in love, in lust - she'd found passion, and she wasn't ashamed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Prompt: Grief**

_**Set two years after the events of season 5.**_

Violet had always prided herself on her ability to embrace reality. Russia had taught her about a lot of things (love, sex, and who _not _to employ as a maid), but of all the lessons she'd taken away from that brief time in its wintry depths, the importance of facing reality had been the most significant. She'd lost sight of it there, her vision clouded by her first experience of true and profound love, her common sense swept away by the embrace of Igor Kuragin – and it had nearly cost her everything. Irina Kuragin had literally pulled her back to reality that fateful night in the carriage – and whilst she would always resent the woman on some level, she had grown to be grateful to her for giving her the best lesson of all – to never lose sight of the real world. From that painful night onward, Violet had looked life in the face, and never backed down. Where others had turned away, played a waiting game, or hoped for other outcomes, Violet had looked at things square on, as they were. There was no point in postponing the inevitable in this world, just as there was no point in trying to hope for a good outcome to a hopeless situation. She had often seemed bitter and heartless in her approach, but she could never regret it – "be cruel to be kind" had become her private motto. One had to be brave in this world, and she had been – not heroic like Matthew and William Mason, but nonetheless brave. To stare life in the face and not flinch at how merciless it could be, that took courage.

She had attempted to ignore the small package all day – trying to distract herself with a visit to Isobel and then later going for dinner at the Abbey. But now, alone in the Dower House, the small brown paper parcel would not leave her alone. It had sat ominously on her writing bureau all morning, silently taunting her, mocking her for her sudden loss of gumption. She wanted to be brave and open it, indeed she'd come close to doing so, only to lose courage when she once more noted the postmark and the unfamiliar elegant writing. And so, in a fit of sudden frustration and cowardice, she'd banished the parcel to the drawer. Out of sight, out of mind, she thought. It had not worked. She'd thought about it all day – her mind constantly betraying her as she listened to Isobel at tea, or later at the Abbey, as Mary and Edith sniped at each other again. On any other night, she might have been amused at how quietly vicious both could be, but not tonight. Instead her mind had drifted elsewhere – to the image of the paper covered parcel, tucked away in her bureau drawer. Waiting for her – always waiting for her, a reminder of how cowardly she'd suddenly become.

She hated herself for ignoring it, for betraying her own principle - look reality in the face, deal with a situation head on. That morning she'd convinced herself that not opening it there and then had been for the best, that she had a busy day ahead and didn't need the distraction that its contents would bring. That had been a blatant lie to herself, a delusion. Out of sight, out of mind, no – out of sight, constantly in mind had been the reality. Reality, that damned word. The irony of what she was doing suddenly hit her. Irina had taught her to be realistic, dragging her back kicking and screaming into the harshness of the real world – how typical that Igor, always full of romantic ideas and gestures, who seemed to live and love in a world of his own creation, should be the one to once more pull her back to the world of impossibilities, of hopeless hopes and dreams.

She knew what the parcel likely contained and she didn't want to face it. Not opening it meant not having to see it in black in white, and if she couldn't see it confirmed and in writing, then it could remain untrue. The dream could continue - that faint, however impossible, glimmer of hope that had so suddenly and so brightly exploded back into her life at Downton two years previous. She'd told herself fifty years earlier that she'd never see Igor Kuragin again, that, realistically, it was unlikely if not impossible, but then there he'd been - older, poorer, but still her Prince - alive and in love with her still. She'd forced herself to be realistic during those months he'd been in York, this despite the aching temptation to abandon everything and fall into his arms once more. Goodness knows her responsibilities were fewer now as opportunity and love presented itself for a second, and wholly unexpected time. But she'd remembered Irina, and that lesson she'd taught her. Igor Kuragin was a man of dreams - and as a young man he'd had the means to at least make some come true, but now as a stateless pauper, there was nothing - nothing but his kindness, passion, and a wonderful persistence that she'd always be in love with, but with whom the realist in her could never agree. And so she'd let him go - back to his wife, the harshest realist of them all. And yet still, something had been reignited since those fateful summer months, two years previous. She'd tried to bury it of course, indeed she'd rather thought she had - but then the package had arrived that morning, and with it the painful realisation that she been daring to hope all along - that for the past two years she'd not been the realist that she thought she'd been.

Pushing herself up from her chair, Violet made her way to the bureau and retrieved the paper covered parcel from the drawer. Hope - she'd told Igor it was a tease designed to prevent them from accepting reality, and yet she knew now she'd been harbouring it. She'd silently hoped, silently dreamt - but she knew the reality of what the parcel meant - the Paris postmark and the unfamiliar writing. The painful truth could not be prevented by keeping it as it was. She knew his handwriting, knew it as well as she knew her own - and this was not it. Returning to her chair, she steadied herself for what she was about to do. She'd been a coward all day, or maybe, she wondered, had she simply let herself sample a tiny bit of Igor's eternal hope one last time. She smiled at the thought, and then gently undid the wrapping.

The letter was brief, as she knew it would be. Count Rostov had been kind in his phrasing, but the words nonetheless seared into her. Igor was dead. In truth, she'd known it since that morning, and now here was the reality in black and white. She'd hoped her instinct had been wrong, hoped that somehow he'd find his way back to her again, that Irina would be dead and that somehow, despite the harsh realities of the world they lived in, they could be together - that he could have come to her, kissed her, and told that this was how it must be, how it would be. That was now over.

She lost track of how long she'd been staring at the letter - memorising the words - words from a man she barely knew, words that had now ended the great love affair of her life. It wasn't until her mantle clock chimed, breaking her reverie, that she realised there'd been more in the package than Rostov's letter. Her hands trembled as she eased the second wrapping off to reveal a battered leather box, that she gently cracked open. She felt tears suddenly well up as she looked inside. His pocket watch. It had been his grandfather's, and she knew it had been something he treasured. He'd told her so one afternoon, as they snuggled together in bed. She'd wanted to know everything about him, just as he had her - and so he'd told her of his family, of his pride in them, of how he'd loved his grandfather, and how honoured he'd been to have been given the watch - and that bar her love, it was the thing he prized most. And now here it was, in her hands. Like him, the watch had been through so much; it had shone brilliantly that afternoon in St Petersburg, but now it too bore the scars of the revolution - scrapes and dents where once there'd been fine engraving. And yet still, indeed maybe more so, she thought it was the most beautiful object she'd ever seen. Tenderly, she caressed her fingers over it, imagining how he used to do the same - that she was tracing his fingertips, until eventually she gently released the cover, opening it, and gasped.

She'd completely forgotten that day, that moment. So much had happened during the last days of their affair that it had simply slipped her mind that he'd asked for a lock of her hair. That he'd kept it... that through everything he'd kept it tucked away within his watch cover...

She hadn't realised the tear falling until she felt it land on her hand. She drunk in the sight of the red lock, a memento of the woman she'd once been, and suddenly the dam burst within her. The pent up emotion of a lifetime of being a realist poured out as she wept. She had prided herself on the realism she'd shown since that awful night in Russia, on her lack of sentimentality, but Igor had been the opposite, a dreamer, sentimental to the core - and now as she looked at the evidence of his heart, of his enduring love, a lock of her hair kept for more than fifty years, she realised what she'd lost. Irina had taught her one of life's most valuable lessons, but Igor had taught her something perhaps even more rare and wondrous - who the _real _Violet Crawley was. The young woman with the red hair; madly in love, passionate about life, daring to hope and dream of impossible things, who let her heart rule her head. Her refusal to open the package that morning, to push it away and hide it, to pretend it didn't exist - all that proved that it had been Igor who'd been right all along - she had learnt to be realistic, but deep down she had hoped as much as he did. She would never regret her life, and would always remain begrudgingly grateful to Irina, but as she mourned Igor, as she grieved for her lover and the man who'd known her best in this world, she realised she also grieved for herself and for the woman she'd been. She'd never been one to cry - something that had been instilled in her from childhood, but just this once she did not fight the need and let herself weep. Igor deserved it, he deserved nothing less than the woman she'd been, and so for one moment she left herself be her once more - to hell with the real world and the realism, to hell with Irina – and Violet cried for the man she'd always loved, for the woman she once was, and for her now broken hopes and dreams.


End file.
